American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E11 - The Other Side
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 11: All hell breaks loose in this next-to-the-last episode of the Series. Tate and Violet are back together but they have some some major stuff to sort out - while Rubber Man's on the prowl, taking prisoners. Tate's got mommy issues to wrestle with. Change is dire progress and the house is anyone's battlefield. Written in the style of the show. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Mama's Boy

**1992**

"Give us a smile," the man behind the camera said.

The photographer, Danny, had tried everything to get the blond boy to loosen up: He'd tried joking around. He'd asked the kid about his hobbies. He'd even gone so far as to try the reverse psychology trick of 'don't smile!' which usually worked even on the most uptight models. Nothing was cracking the teen's sulky demeanor. So the photographer had resorted to cajoling - and that wasn't working either.

The kid was a hottie - that much was true - and while there was a market for brooding, pouty young men in the industry, Danny prided himself on being able to draw a good range of emotions from his subjects. But Tate Langdon was determined to be a one-trick pony even after Danny got some pot and alcohol into him. It was a shame and a personal defeat for the cameraman.

In the end Danny was forced to work with what the boy was giving him. He did get some good shots but they were severely limited in what the mother would be able to do with them, especially the head shots. Casting directors and modeling agencies wanted headshots that were friendly and approachable. Tate's were emotionless.

...

"After six hours, Mrs. Langdon," Danny told the irate woman in his most pacifying tone. "I had to call it. With coachingyour son _could_ be a model. He's certainly got the looks and he has the 'it' factor. But no professional group is going to want to employ talent that won't show a range of emotion."

"I paid six hundred dollars for this sham," Constance fumed. "And you're tellin' me my boy is unemployable."

"That's not what I'm saying, ma'am," said Danny. "I'm saying he needs coaching-"

"-which you'd be happy to provide at an additional cost," she scoffed. "I should have known better than to go with a talent scout. I should have gone directly to the media agents myself."

"We do have in-house coaches," Danny agreed. "But-"

Constance didn't want to hear it. She'd already made up her mind about the Stars Above Talent Agency. "Just give me the goddamned photos," she demanded.

He passed the folder of shots over to her with a reluctant air. "I really think you should consider-"

"I'm done considerin' anythin' _you_ have to say," she said.

She grabbed the folder and stalked out of his little office. On the way out she collected her son from the waiting area where he was still sulking. He followed her out to the car and they both got in without saying anything to each other. It wasn't until they got on the road where no one else could hear that she lit into him.

"I spent six hundred dollars on headshots and you couldn't even give the man one goddamned smile?"

Tate frowned and looked out the car window. "He was a douche-bag."

"So what?" she demanded. She slammed on the brakes at a red light right before accidentally running it. She used the time between it and the green light to glare at her son. "You could have smiled once. Just once!"

He folded his arms. "I don't feel like smiling."

She gave a bitter laugh then. "Tell me somethin' I don't already know. Jesus-fucking-christ, Tate! You don't have to _feel_ like smilin' to fake one. You could have a career makin' thousands of dollars a week!"

"I don't want to be a fucking model!" he exploded. "I told you that before you dragged me down there! I don't want to model! I don't want to act! That's _your_ dream! Not mine!"

"You don't _have_ dreams!" she countered viciously. "You don't want to be anything when you grow up! You'd sit in your bedroom wastin' your whole life readin' comic books and watchin' MTV if I let you! Why can't you just cooperate? We need money!"

"Then get a fucking job!" he snapped, hurt by her harsh words.

She glared hard at him, tears brightening the rims of her eyes. There was pain under her anger. He sank in his seat. He knew he shouldn't have said that. But he didn't know how to apologize in a way that wouldn't invite her to verbally tear him open so he sat there in silence. She didn't speak to him again the whole rest of the trip home. When she stopped the car she turned a cold look on him.

"I have worked my ass off to keep this family together," she said in a low, menacing way that he'd learned to associate with pain and fear. "Your brother and sister need more than I can provide. If you won't help me, I'll find someone who will!"

She got out of the car then, slamming the door behind herself. He sat there for several minutes fighting back the urge to cry. He told himself he didn't regret not smiling when he hadn't felt like it. Deep down, though, he couldn't help wondering if he'd really screwed up.

But he didn't want to be in front of cameras. He didn't like the creepy feeling photographers gave him. They pretended to be your buddy just to get you to show your most vulnerable sides for the sole purpose of using them to sell stuff to other people. And Tate didn't want to be a whore.

"Whore," he muttered. He wasn't sure if he was talking about his mother or what she wanted him to be.

He got out of the car and slunk inside where he immediately went to the bathroom to slice some cuts into his arm. The wounds wouldn't matter now; the photo sessions were over for good. He was done being what his mother wanted him to be. That's what he told himself with each stroke of the blade.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**2018**

Tate carried the bound man down to the basement. He'd learned how to properly bind a person from Patrick and was privately pleased with how well he'd put that new skill to use. His ability also seemed to impress both Travis and - more importantly - Constance. It had been a long time since he'd felt like he'd done anything that made her proud. Though he wouldn't say it out loud, he liked it when she was proud of him. He didn't want to like it but, as with many things in his existence, he couldn't help what he felt.

"Doctor Montgomery!" he called as he descended the stairs with his awkward baggage. "Doctor Montgomery! I need your help!"

His call drew the surgeon out of the ether he'd been huffing back in his office. He solidified and emerged from the shadows in a lab coat and tie. When he saw the bloody and naked man he frowned.

"What's this?" the dark-haired doctor asked, giving the bullet hole in the man's forehead close scrutiny.

Tate carried Ambrose over to the old operating table and dropped him onto it. The man stirred a little. The bullet had come all the way out of his skull on the trip down the stairs but Ambrose had yet to regain consciousness. If his healing process was anything like Tate's, it might be a while before he fully recovered from being shot in the head. But Tate couldn't count on that.

"Constance needs you to... fix him," he said.

Dr. Montgomery looked the unconscious man over with a critical eye. "There is nothing wrong with him that a bath won't fix. He's healing himself."

"That's the problem, Charles," Constance said as she descended the stairs. She had a cigarette in one hand. "We can't have him runnin' this household and I'm not sharin' this property with his ghost. But he might be of some use if he's alive but… controlled."

The doctor and Tate watched she stepped down off the staircase. She came over to where they were gathered near the table and she looked down at Ambrose and blew smoke over his inert face. He would certainly be of more value as a living zombie. The ghosts really would rule the property with a living puppet they could control in charge of it.

"Can you give him a lobotomy?" she asked, straightening to look at Dr. Montgomery.

"I suppose I could," he said. "I've studied the technique but I've never performed one before."

Constance smiled at him and resisted the urge to touch his cheek. She could sense Nora was somewhere nearby and she didn't want to stir up trouble with so much already plaguing her doorstep.

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," she encouraged instead. "Just make sure he stays alive. Be careful. He's self-healin' so make sure he stays fixed. Oh, and get rid of his tongue while you're at it, just to be safe. He knows too much... about this house and other strange things."

Constance remembered his threat about binding her to a rock and knew she was making the right decision. She looked over at Tate while Charles set to strapping Ambrose's arms and legs to the table with the built-in leather restraints. "Stay here with him," she ordered her son. "Until the job's done."

"But mama..!" Tate started.

She held up a hand and put on her 'not hearing it' face. "I have to go back upstairs and get the damned blood off the floor before it sets in. That stupid maid went and drank her own foul brew. She's completely useless right now."

Tate was less than thrilled. "Fine," he grumped. "But later I want to go see Violet."

"Fine," Constance said in the exact same way he'd delivered the word. "Just make sure that asshole stays put till Charles can scramble his brains. We don't need him menacing the household again." She started toward the stairs then paused to add: "Father Jeremiah's comin' over later to put that blessin' on your room. Behave yourself when he gets here."

Then she went back upstairs but by the time she got there Chad was already there, armed with a bucket of bleach and a mop, with his heavy duty housecleaning apron on. Constance considered offering to help him since the mess was huge but she didn't really want to clean up any more blood. She'd already done enough of that over the years. So she left the gay perfectionist grumbling over the chore and went to have a cocktail and a cigarette instead.

...

Tate did as his mother instructed. He watched Dr. Montgomery work, witnessing the procedure with a mixture of disgust and twisted fascination. The doctor put the chunk of brain he removed into one of his dusty glass jars of formaldehyde and admired it like it was a prize.

"Is he done?" Tate asked, eyeing the unconscious man whose scalp the doctor had so recently sewn back together. "He won't- He's, um. Done. Right?"

Charles glanced over at the teen and nodded. "I've finished with the surgery. This bolt here steadies the plate I installed to inhibit regrowth of the brain tissue."

"You want me to move him?"

"No need, just yet," said the doctor. "I need to keep him under observation for a while, to be sure that his healing abilities don't negate the procedure. He can stay here for now."

Reassured, Tate moved toward the staircase. "I'm going to go find Violet," he said.

Dr. Montgomery didn't respond. He was lost in his adoring study of the brain piece he'd carved out.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Interesting trivia bit: Forced lobotomies and forced sterilization went on legally in the United States right up to 1979. Some states used it as a way to stop high-risk young women from breeding.

Another trivia bit: Evan Peters, the actor who plays Tate, started his career as a model. One of the first people he worked with was later questioned in court over some inappropriate photos he took involving some underage teen boys.

Next chapter: A visit with Violet. Also, her parents both get some face time. But the Harmons aren't having a nice family meeting.


	2. Chapter 2 - Confessions

...

Ben floated on a dark cloud courtesy of Charles' drug supply as well as the influence of the darkest powers of the house. It was a delirious place to be. The world swam around him in slow motion, a dizzy ride that would suddenly rocket forward at random moments only to slow abruptly to a hazy crawl again. Furtive whispers crowded his thoughts, indistinct and chaotic and as beautiful as an industrial melody.

He felt on fire from the inside, an overheated machine ready to blow. At one point he thought he should fight the storm of feelings and sensations. But trying to do so only made his head feel like it would explode. It felt so much better just to go with the flow. And that midnight tide was sweeping him forward, propelling him to action.

He could feel the others beneath the house, inside it and around it; they were waiting to emerge and reclaim the territory from the forces trying to take it over. And he would spearhead the movement. He knew what to do.

...

Violet was lying on her bed, poking around on one of the laptops when Tate showed up outside her room. She knew he was there even before he pushed the door open. She shut the laptop and shoved it to the end of the bed before pushing herself upright with a smile.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey. That priest guy's coming over later," he said, coming over to where she was. He stopped at the foot of her bed. "Constance thinks he can bless my room to keep it safe."

Violet made a face. "Great," she said. "This is what we're reduced to: Hokey exorcisms. Just great. You know, those haven't worked out well for us in the past." She meant the Croatoan nonsense. That had been an embarrassing exercise in failure that Chad loved to tease her about occasionally.

Tate sat down beside her and clasped his hands between his knees to keep them still. "I know. But what else can we do? You know?"

She sighed and shifted so she was sitting cross-legged. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I really don't think blessing this hell-hole is going to do anything."

He shrugged. "Can't hurt though."

She shrugged too, not convinced but not inclined to argue.

"Violet?"

She raised her eyebrows and tipped her head, silently inviting him to go on.

"I never stopped loving you."

"I love you too," said Violet. "But _please_: No more crazy shit like Westfield. Or… well. Anything."

"I had to go," said Tate. A tear slid down one cheek. "You said you couldn't forgive me. And I get why you couldn't. I do. That's why I went. It's why I've done _everything_. Therapy. This thing with Chad and Patrick. The exterminator guy. Everything."

"Exterminator guy?" she asked.

"Long story," he said. "The point is I wanted to make things right so- so you could love me again."

She smiled then, crooked and resigned. She reached over and brushed the lone tear from his skin. "I never stopped loving you, Tate. I just… couldn't _be _with you. I couldn't be- I didn't want to be the girl who loved a murderer."

Tate turned away, sagging into the mustard yellow sweater he wore. He _was _a murderer. He had killed more than one person over the years and he knew he'd kill again if the reasons were right. He'd come close to doing just that a few hours ago when the new owner of the house was causing problems for his mother. As it was, on her whim he handed the man over to a crazy ghost to have his brain carved up.

"I can't help what I am," he said quietly, looking down at his hands. "I don't even really know what I am anymore. I just know…" He looked at her then and tried to smile through the tears. It was a fragile expression. "I don't want you to ever tell me to 'go away' again." The smile failed and his expression crumbled into a mournful one. He pulled his knees up and hugged them in a way that mostly hid his face.

His vulnerability pierced Violet's heart and made her want to hug him. She scooted closer and put an arm over his hunched-up shoulders.

"I don't really know what I am anymore either," she said after a moment. "Billie Dean said that the more we act like we're still living, the closer we are to being human. I was thinking about it… If I want to, I can move from here to the living room just by shifting a little. Fact is… I can walk up and downstairs all day like a human but it's not going to change the fact that I can do shit no human can."

Tate turned his head a little and peeked at her through his barricade of arms, knees and messy blond hair. "So are you saying we should try and be more like humans? Or embrace the evolution?"

"I don't know," she admitted with a small smile.

Violet wanted to keep leaning on him like that because it felt good to be close to someone in such a way again. It had been a long, long time since she'd had physical contact like that. But there was something bothering her that she had to address. She straightened and let her arm drop to her side.

"What… what about my mom?" she said at last.

He looked pained and retreated into his knee fortress again. "I… I don't know. I can't… decide what to do. There's no real way to… I mean, I could apologize but…"

"How could you do that to her anyway?" Violet said.

He fidgeted with the snake ring on his thumb, twisting it around and around in the shadows created by the curve of his body. "It's… it's like I told your dad. I don't even remember putting on the rubber suit but it was on me. The suit… it makes you think and act different. It's like you're riding outside of yourself. I've seen it move by itself. It's like some kind of monster. I don't know. I just know I was in it and I walked in the bedroom and she was putting on some lotion and… and when she saw me there she was like: 'Hey, you're totally hot.'"

He lifted his head a little to make eye contact so she'd know his next words weren't kidding around. "And - I shit you not - she pulled me into bed with her. I don't know if the house was making her or us be like that or what but I just kind of went with it. I never wanted to hurt her."

It all came out in rush. He wasn't trying to upset Violet or mock her. He just wanted her to understand things the way he saw it. She stared at him, trying to process his story. It was still repulsive but it sounded credible. The girl just didn't know whether she really could trust what he said.

"I think… I understand," said Violet carefully. Part of her still wanted to be grossed out and angry but she knew that she was at a point where she would either have to make herself let go or else wrestle with it forever. "But I think- I think you should talk to my mother. If she wants to talk to you. She deserves closure."

"I can't do that," he hedged immediately, uncurling a little to eye her warily. "She already hates me. She wouldn't want to talk to me."

"She doesn't hate you," Violet said. "My mom doesn't hate. She wouldn't waste the energy."

"She'll hate me," Tate said with dead certainty.

"She deserves to know," insisted Violet. "If she decides she hates you after, well... That's something you'll have to deal with. But she should know and you should be the one to tell her. Not me or my dad."

Tate looked at her helplessly. He knew she was right though he wished she wasn't. He had a strange fear of speaking directly to Vivien. He had never appeared directly to her, before or after that one night, and he could happily go on forever not doing so. He wasn't afraid she would hurt him. He couldn't put a name to what he it was that he was afraid of, which only heightened his reluctance to face her.

"I'll talk to her after the priest-guy does his thing," he said at last.

...

Vivien rocked Joshua gently back and forth and hummed his favorite lullaby. It was a wordless song she'd made up during his many fussy bouts and it was one that almost never failed to soothe him. It was simple; sometimes she would fill it in with ad-libbed words about whatever they were doing at the time but mostly it was just a tune to pacify the restless little spirit.

She paced the length of the nursery slowly, her eyes on the tiny soul bundled in her arms. She knew that it had been years since she bore him but since he never seemed to change, it didn't feel like it had been that long. With as busy as Vivien and Ben had been when their first child was born, Violet seemed to have sped through infancy into early childhood practically overnight. Then, before Vivien was prepared for it, suddenly the girl was a teenager and the tot Vivien had loved so dearly seemed to vanish. Every once in a while she saw a remnant of the child inside the young woman but the baby she'd had for too short a time was gone forever, more dead than dead.

Joshua would never do that to her. It was a selfish feeling and she wouldn't wish such a state on any living being but she couldn't lie to herself. The side of her that wanted a child to mother was privately glad that she had a baby who would never vanish. He would never race away from her into adulthood, leaving her with empty arms and a hole in her heart.

She barely felt the gloved hand on her shoulder before the needle jabbed into her neck. The drug entered her system. She turned, pulling away too late to avoid taking the full dose. The only thing she saw before the fast-acting sedative knocked her out was a blur of black rubber.

.. ..

Rubber Man caught her and the baby in a swift embrace. He gently lowered Vivien's unconscious form to the floor then he scooped up the infant. Joshua stirred and frowned in his sleep, aware that things were not right. He mewled softly.

Ben stripped off the hood so he could speak to his son. "Shh," he said quietly. He rocked the baby gently. "It's just daddy. Shh."

Familiar with his voice, Joshua quieted. He didn't relax but he didn't cry either. Silent, the baby wouldn't alert Nora. Ben stared at the infant's tiny, expressive face through the haze of drugs and supernatural persuasion. Then he carried the ghost baby into the shadows with him.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

So I had to head out of town to help my dad settled into hospice so I was a little late with my updates thanks to the fact that his house had no internet. All is as well as can be expected and I thank the folks who've already heard and wrote me little notes of encouragement. I appreciate it.

Next chapter: Jeremiah schools the ghosts on what they're dealing with. And what'll happen when Violet finds out Rubber Man took her little brother?


	3. Chapter 3 - Priest

...

Tate was still with Violet in her room - the room that used to be his - when he felt Chad summoning him downstairs. He sighed and sat up though he would have preferred to remain there snuggled up next to her.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Chad's calling me," he said as he slid off the bed and to his feet. "I have to go see what he wants."

"Oh," said Violet. She knew about their arrangement and had witnessed it first-hand before but she still wasn't used to seeing it in action.

Tate paused near the door to age down. Then he took a quick peek in the small mirror that hung near the light switch and smoothed his hair with his hands. It didn't do much good. He made a face and tried again with the same results.

"What're you doing?" Violet asked, shaking off the weirdness of seeing him change age before her eyes.

Tate looked back at her, brows arched high. "I'm fixing my hair. Chad goes berserk if he sees it messy. He's got a real bug up his ass about it." His voice had youthened along his form which made the statement sound precocious.

"You're never going to get it done that way," Violet said as she got up. "Here."

She went over to her desk and dug around in the drawers until she found a small hairbrush which she put to use on Tate's unruly blond mop. He stood still for her, chewing on the cuticle of one finger. He appreciated her gentle touch. It was much nicer than the way certain other people always did things.

"There," said Violet once she was done.

Tate looked in the mirror and decided it would pass inspection even though it wasn't exactly how Chad would style it. It looked like it had been brushed and tended to and that's what mattered most. He smiled at her again. "Thanks."

Violet smiled back. He was cute when he was being small and sweet, in a whole different way than she normally appreciated. She could understand better Chad's insistence on keeping Tate in a younger form: It was difficult to associate someone so young and charming with the horrible things Tate had done when he was older. He just seemed more innocent.

"Come on," she said. "We'll go down together."

That made Tate smile even bigger so that both of his dimples showed. He slipped his hand into hers and led the way downstairs. He could feel Chad's impatience he didn't want to will himself directly to where the man was because he wanted to spend as much time with Violet as he could. So they took the slower, more human route.

They found the dark-haired gay man in the Great Room, looking like he stepped out a of a Calvin Klein ad in his polo shirt and khaki pants. Patrick was there too, more casually dressed in a green and white baseball tee and sweat pants. Father Jeremiah was with them and he was dressed for his part in a traditional black cassock.

"Are we doing the, um. The blessing thing?" Tate said as he came into the room. To him the priest looked exactly like the ones in _The Exorcist_. It struck him as funny: An exorcist trying to protect a bunch of ghosts from a house instead of the other way around.

Violet hung back in the doorway, just in case she wasn't welcome.

"Hello, Ethan," Father Jeremiah said. "Er. Tate."

"Hi," said Tate. "You can call me Ethan if you want. I don't mind."

"I'd rather use your real name," the priest said with a mild smile. "It'll just take getting used to." He looked to the teen girl then. "Hello, Violet."

The girl took the greeting as permission to come all the way into the room. "Hey," she said.

"Took you long enough," grouched Chad.

"I came as soon as you called," Tate said. "I had to fix my hair first."

Chad still looked sour but, after a glance at Tate's hair, he didn't complain further. "Well, I guess we're ready."

"What're you doing?" Violet asked. She knew from Tate roughly what was going to happen but she wanted to hear a better explanation from someone who knew what the specifics were.

"We're going to try to make this place a bit safer," said Father Jeremiah as he opened the small leather satchel he had with him. He took out a purple stole, kissed it and then placed it around his shoulders.

"Something's been making that old rubber suit do… strange things," Patrick said. "I know that probably sounds crazy but-"

"No," assured Violet. "Tate told me what happened - more or less. I don't think you're crazy. I've seen some pretty fucked up shit in this house." She looked sheepishly at the priest then, realizing that she should probably try to curb the cursing. "Um. Do you think you could do that for the whole house?"

Father Jeremiah finished up his quiet prayer for strength and focused an apologetic smile on her. "I'm afraid not. I'm not even sure I can even manage a single room. The force surrounding this place is..." He looked up at the ceiling and around the room. "Very, very strong. There's a gateway here somewhere. I suspect it's in the back yard."

"The sinkhole?" guessed Violet. "But they sealed that up."

"Humans sealed it with building materials," Jeremiah corrected. "That sort of seal cannot hold back what is not of this world."

"But what is it?" the girl prompted. She felt closer than ever to understanding the nature of the house and she couldn't resist prying, even if it meant stalling the procedure that the man had come to do.

Jeremiah shrugged. "Angel. Demon. Djinn."

"I don't believe in any of that stuff," Violet said boldly.

Jeremiah's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Did you believe in ghosts before you became one?"

He had her there. She folded her arms. "But what would an angel want with a house?"

Jeremiah spread his hands. "I don't claim to understand the way They think. I only know what I've been taught and what I have experienced. If you want my best guess, I'd have to say that the Entity is using this place as a staging ground: Collecting souls to fortify Its personal forces. To what end I have no clue. But I know the One I serve is... not happy about it."

That earned him some strange looks.

"Who do you serve?" Violet asked. She didn't mean to issue the question like a challenge; it just sort of came out sounding that way.

Jeremiah pulled a worn leather-bound book from his satchel. It was small enough to fit in one hand. "Samael," he answered. Then he opened the book and began leafing through it.

"Wait," said Patrick. "Wait. Samael? You're not- Don't all priests serve God?"

Jeremiah looked over at him. Outwardly his demeanor was unchanged but inwardly he shored up his confidence, bracing for what could be a fight. "I serve Samael," he repeated mildly.

Violet frowned. "Samael?" she said. "Isn't that, like, another name for Satan?"

Jeremiah looked at her now, expression tightening. "Names have become muddied over the years, thanks to linguistic interpretations and the influence of the media."

"Are you a Satanist?" Violet rephrased.

Jeremiah placed a finger in his book to mark the spot he'd been skimming. "Not in the sense that you think of it."

"You're a fucking _Satanist_?" Chad exploded.

"Wait," Pat said at the same time. "What?"

"He's a Satanist?" said Tate. He wondered if his mother knew.

"In what sense, then?" demanded Violet over the reactions of the others. She was getting angry. She felt like the man was trying to dupe them all.

Jeremiah kept his nerves in check. He couldn't allow their joint displeasure to rattle him, especially while he was inside the house. "I serve Samael-"

"You already said that," Chad interrupted rudely.

"He is an archangel," Jeremiah said more loudly, ignoring him. "Some religions believe He is the Lord of the Fifth or Seventh Heaven. Jews call him the Venom of God; the Angel of Death. Satan is merely a role or a job; not a single individual or entity. The very word simply means 'adversary'. Samael is God's left hand and it is He who collects the souls of the dead for the Almighty Lord. He is beyond simple concepts such as 'good' and 'evil'."

He paused to let the others react but everyone was too stunned to speak immediately. So Jeremiah continued. "That is why He is interested in this location - and Michael. The One who has set up residence in this place has been... infringing on Samael's territory."

The ghosts looked around at each other, none knowing quite how to take that explanation.

"Well, if that's true," said Chad, gathering his wits first. "Then who's the 'One' that's doing the infringing?"

Jeremiah shook his head. "I'm not sure but I think it might be Belial."

"Who - or what - is Belial?" said Violet, hugging herself tightly. She didn't want to believe in any of this religious crap but after everything she'd experienced in Murder House, it was hard not to listen. It was best, she decided, to hear the priest out. She could sort out later what she really believed.

"Belial is an angel of hostility," Jeremiah said. "His realm is darkness. His name is associated with all manner of unholy things. He is a tempter of man and an antithesis to everything pure. In ancient times His name was used much as we use the term 'bastard' or 'bitch'. The last place He held strong dominion was in the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah."

Patrick rubbed his eyes. It had been years since he'd set foot in a church but he remembered all too well what the preacher had to say about those cities - before and after God's wrath. As bizarre as the priest's explanation was, too much of what he was saying made sense in the context of what Pat had personally experienced in the house.

"You mean the thing that invented sodomy is living here with us?" demanded Violet. That sounded like a demon more than an angel, to her understanding.

"He can't be _all_ bad," Chad mumbled, earning a dour look from Patrick. He widened his eyes in response, trying to look innocent.

Pat didn't say anything, though he really wanted to. He bit down on the tip of his tongue and focused on Jeremiah instead.

"I can't be certain," admitted the priest. "But my research indicates He is most likely the One that has nested here. It could be another but I doubt it."

"But why would it want to take Tate?" asked Patrick.

Jeremiah shook his head. "I don't know. What would He want with any of the souls you say have gone missing? It's my best guess that it wants 'shock troops'."

"Tate's not exactly a dream recruit," Patrick pointed out.

"Sure he is," Chad debated, folding his arms. "He's as suggestible as a sponge and he's a cinch to control if you know how."

Patrick gave him another sour look. "I'm going to remind you of that the next time he gives you one of those headaches you bitch about endlessly."

"Heeey," Tate interjected. He didn't like being talked about like he wasn't there.

"Things have been getting weirder here for a while," Violet said to the priest, deciding to stay out of the other discussion. She needed a cigarette but hadn't brought any down with her. She hadn't been planning to attend an apocalyptic discussion about the root of the house's power. "But... Can you really protect anyone here? I mean, if there's some archangel or demon or whatever that's controlling shit here... How can you stop it?"

"I can't," the priest admitted. "I'm just hoping to make one small part of the house safe. I was intending to ask Samael to bless one room in this place. Think of it as a seed. If I can sow it here and it can take root, then He can potentially grow it from the inside."

"But," said Tate. "Won't that just mean we're trading one demon for another one?"

"Samael will have this territory, one way or the other," said Father Jeremiah. "This is just a means to the end that He will achieve sooner or later, with or without my help. If Belial has been collecting the souls to use as a shield against Samael, it won't work. That would be like using a tissue to thwart a bullet."

"It sounds like a world of shit for the people it's turned into a shield," said Chad.

Jeremiah shrugged. "I could be wrong," he admitted. "I honestly don't know. I've asked Samael for clarity and received none."

"In short," Chad said with a prissy little smile. "You're making this shit up as you go along."

Jeremiah forced himself to present a neutral face to the man though the assessment chafed. "There are many pieces to this puzzle. I may not have them all in order but I can see most of them. Eventually they will all fall into place."

"But if what you're saying is true," said Violet. "Won't it piss off Belial if you go and turn one of the rooms here into a shrine to Samael?"

"I don't know," said Jeremiah, spreading his hands. "Possibly. I'm willing to take that chance."

"This is sounding less and less like a good plan," said Patrick.

Sensing his opportunity was in danger of crumbling, Jeremiah said hastily, "The two entities that are at war over this area will continue to fight whether I'm involved or not. What's going to happen _will_ happen. It's been in the prophecies of _all_ religions since ancient times. What this will do is stop Belial from claiming Tate as a part of the process, which He apparently wishes to do. But I won't force this on you. I am simply here to help."

Then they all heard someone shouting upstairs. It was weak at first but grew stronger as the owner drew closer to the stairwell. It was a woman's voice, calling for Violet.

"It's my mom," the teen girl said, concern etched into her young face. "Mom! I'm here!" she called back.

In a blink she was midway up the stairs. The move startled Father Jeremiah. He knew on a conscious level that Violet was a ghost but it still caught him off guard to actually see her move like one.

Tate followed suit: One moment he standing with Patrick and Chad, the next he was on the stairs behind Violet. He almost shifted ages but thought better of it. If he was about to encounter Vivien, he didn't want to do it in a form she might hate on sight. They had never actually met face to face - not without a rubber hood masking his features - but he wasn't thinking about that.

"Mom!" Violet called again. She stepped forward, shooting through space in a quick-step to the next floor. Tate followed.

The others came after at a more human pace, with Jeremiah bringing up the rear. When they arrived, they saw Vivien staggering down the hall toward the landing and her daughter, barely staying on her feet by bracing herself against the nearest wall. She looked incredibly groggy; drugged.

"Violet!" Vivien said, relief pairing with anxiety in her tone. "Oh, God. Violet. Something… took Joshua."

Vivien stumbled and fell into her daughter's arms. Violet caught her mother, who leaned heavily on the teen girl for support. The woman was fighting the sedative she'd been injected with as best she could but it was will against supernatural will.

"What?" said Violet. "Who? Who took Joshua?"

"I- I don't know!" said Vivien. She pushed her hair back from her face and she closed her eyes for a long moment. "I was rocking him. Then... Then there was black. Something black. I woke up on the floor and..." Her eyes opened, full of tears. "He was gone!"

"Sounds like the M.O. of someone we know," Chad said in an undertone to Patrick.

"Yeah," said Pat, privately grateful that he hadn't been hit with whatever Vivien was under the influence of.

"We have to find him!" said Vivien, panic creeping back into her words.

"We will, mom," Violet assured, hugging the stressed woman.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Here we are at the midway point of the second-to-last episode. This particular chapter was largely inspired by all the vintage horror films from the 70s and 80s. There had to be an interfering priest that came in to bless the place or person that was giving the heroes trouble. _The Omen_, a series of films and books about the antichrist Damien, was especially fond of bringing a priest into a random scenes to show the audience how powerful Damien was by comparison. _Poltergeist 2: The Other Side_ (for which this Episode is named) features one of the scariest preachers of all time. _Children of the Corn _did things a bit backward and had the main bad guy be a preacher's son. If you have Netflix, you can find a whole horror subcategory of "Satanic films" that feature priests either trying to thwart the devil or are doing his work. I guess Father Jeremiah fits both of those descriptions. The name of this chapter is dedicated to him and also happens to be the name of a cheesy old horror flick.

Next chapter: The rescue effort's underway and more shenanigans from Rubber Man. Stay tuned! And thanks for the reviews and comments. I love 'em.


	4. Chapter 4 - Kidnapping

...

Violet looked to Chad for help but the dark-haired man put his hands up defensively.

"Don't look at me!" he said defensively. "I was barely able to get Tate back and that was only because Patrick was there to scare him into responding to us."

Pat shot him a flat look, which Chad pretended not to notice.

"Maybe Mrs. Nora could help?" Tate suggested.

Vivien looked down at the blond little boy, her expression vague. "Who... who are you?"

Tate got all wide-eyed and pulled his sleeves down over his fingers nervously. "Ethan," he mumbled and looked away.

"Oh," the woman said. She had a fuzzy recollection of Chad mentioning he was caring for a child ghost with that name but had never seen him before. " Nice to meet you. But I... I don't know how Nora could help."

She put her hands over her face and tried to think past panic and the drug haze but it was very difficult. It reminded her of how she had felt when Violet was four and Vivien lost her at the grocery store. She had never felt fear like that. One moment she was eyeing fruit while Violet played around next to the cart and the next thing she knew, Violet was gone.

Vivien had raced down the center aisle frantically looking down each intersecting one. It had occurred to her how big the store was and how she could easily miss the little girl if she happened to pass by one of the tall shelves on the other end at the same time as Vivien. But it was the first thing that came to her through the panic. She had called to her daughter repeatedly as she went but got no response. Upset and scared, she couldn't decide whether to abandon the search and go find an employee or if stopping the search would lose Violet for good.

But she was saved having to make that judgment call when she found the little girl in the toy aisle, playing with some bouncy balls that lit up, oblivious to how worried her mother was. Vivien had been so relieved that she didn't even scold her daughter. She had just hugged her and cried.

This situation was far worse than that. Joshua hadn't wandered off to go look at toys. He'd been forcibly taken by someone or something and Vivien had no idea where to begin looking for him - or how. There was no manager she could contact who could send a message to him over the speakers or lock the doors. She couldn't call the police. The only help she had was in the house and the outlook looked very grim.

Unable to help herself, Vivien began to cry.

"Mom," Violet said gently and put her arm around the woman. "Don't cry. We'll find him."

"How?" said Vivien. She wasn't saying it to be snide. She genuinely wanted to know. She wanted to hope.

"I know how," said Tate, with a serious look of determination. "I think I know where it took him."

Vivien looked at the little boy again, tears streaking her face. "You? How?"

"It took me too," he said.

"But you don't even remember," objected Patrick.

Tate looked up at him. "If what I think is true, I won't have to." He looked at Chad then. "Can you feel him? Joshua, I mean?"

Chad sighed. "You want _me_ to find him."

Tate turned on his most imploring expression. "Please, Chad. We have to help her. She can't do it alone. She needs your help."

The dark-haired man put on a sour look. "I'm beginning to see why parenting gives people gray hair." He drew himself up as though he were rising above it all, martyr-like. "Fine," he said to the boy, earning him a smile. "But you owe me."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Father Jeremiah put in. He felt badly for the distraught mother.

"Just do the exorcism or blessing or whatever the fuck it is you're going to do," dictated Chad. "Do it to the second room on the left on the third floor. And try not to get yourself killed." He looked at Violet then. "You stay here and help your mother. She shouldn't be alone like… that."

Then he shifted his attention to his little family. He sighed again and shut his eyes. There was a moment of silence while he concentrated. Jeremiah paused near the stairs, wanting to see how things went, but he had a job to do - and not just because the ghost had told him to. So he went upstairs, to the room he had been given directions to.

Chad, meanwhile, was able to home in on the infant and he received a surprise.

"The baby's in the basement," he said.

"He is?" Violet asked, hugging her mother and more than half supporting her. "Are you sure?"

Chad wasn't aware of it but the others saw faint light fade from his eyes when he opened them. "Yes. He and… the thing that took him. They're both down there."

"I want to go," said Violet. "Chad, would you please stay with my mom? You can take her to Tate's room, where you're getting it blessed."

"No, Violet," Vivien protested. Her words were weak but her intent was true. "No. I don't want you… to get hurt."

"Mom, I'm dead," the teen reasoned. "If anything hurts me, I can just heal it up."

Vivien gave a weak laugh. "My girl," she sighed. "Always… the brave one." Her eyes shut again. She was running out of energy fast.

Violet looked at Chad, imploring. "Whoever or whatever's got my brother, I know I can fight it."

Chad pursed his lips. He didn't doubt she could do just what she said, except that he knew who Joshua was with.

"I think your mother's right," he said. "You should stay with her and the priest. Either one of them may need your help. We'll take care of this."

Tate peered at Chad then looked up at Violet. "Don't worry. I'll handle it," he said.

She gave him a tight little smile, amused in spite of herself at how serious he looked. It was his apparent age that made the situation humorous. "Thanks a lot." The words were close to patronizing, the way she delivered them, but she didn't intend to be insulting.

"Come on," said Patrick. "Let's do this."

...

Constance was doing needlepoint in bed, only peripherally watching the old movie that played on the small television in her room. Her thoughts were on the house's new owner and what she intended to do with him. After a lot of consideration she had decided it was a good that events had rolled out the way they had. It left Mr. Ambrose completely under the influence of the spirits that haunted the two properties. That meant that they wouldn't have to put up with a constant parade of new owners, strangers and real estate people, turning their afterlives upside down.

They would just have to keep Mr. Ambrose alive. Keeping him contained would be easy, provided Charles' operation held. Keeping the house from killing him in his weakened state would be the hardest part of her plan. She thought about moving him to her house but she didn't really want him there. She didn't want to displace Father Jeremiah by giving the guest room to the gray-haired brute. But she also knew he couldn't be left unattended in Murder House.

She considered moving back into the old Victorian herself. She also gave thought to having Moira babysit the man, as an alternate plan. She discarded that idea almost the instant she had it. The maid was hardly competent enough for such a large task. Tate was out. As much as she loved him, he was too unstable to be relied on for such a long-term assignment. No one in the house met Constance's standards for how the matter should be handled but she didn't want to have to do it herself. It was a circular problem with no apparent solution.

She could have a shed built out in back, behind her current residence, to store the man in. They could put it somewhere behind her greenhouse perhaps. But that wouldn't be much better than actually having him in the house. It was probably best just to leave him in the mansion next door. She knew she couldn't ask Charles to continue to monitor him, though. She loved the ghost dearly but she knew boredom would overcome his desire to keep the man alive and she'd likely find Mr. Ambrose strewn about the shelves in pickle jars.

A blood-curdling scream tore her abruptly from her thoughts. It was Michael's voice. She was up and out of bed in an instant. She made it as far as the hall when she heard him call out to her in panic but he was cut off. Constance threw his door open just in time to see something shiny and black disappear into the shadows of the ceiling with the struggling boy.

It was just like what Patrick told her had happened to Tate.

"Come back here, you monster!" Constance screamed at the ceiling.

But there was nothing there. Michael was gone.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

The loss of a child is a parent's worst nightmare. Whether through accident or kidnapping, the time spent not knowing where the child is or what condition they're in is agonizing. The parent goes through a private hell, imagining that their child is crying and unconsoled or in pain; being hurt by whoever took them. The parent may punish themselves by imagining that the child blames them or is wondering 'Why doesn't mommy/daddy come for me?' And if that child dies, the parent continues to torture themselves with thoughts of how terrified and awful the child felt during their last moments - and how there's no way for the parent to ever kiss it better.

But even worse than that is having a child go missing and never turn up. Are they alive somewhere? Are they being mistreated? Do they know that they're loved and their parent wants them to come home? Are they dead? Did they die horribly or quickly? Not knowing is a hell unto itself. Regardless, kidnapping definitely deserves a spot in the American Horror Story.

This chapter was largely influenced by _Poltergeist _and real life horror stories. Next chapter: Violet discovers a secret Tate's been hiding and Constance is on the warpath.


	5. Chapter 5 - Letters & Rituals

...

While Vivien napped on Tate's bed, Violet watched Father Jeremiah perform his blessing ritual. It wasn't very interesting to watch; the process consisted mostly of prayer and waving at the walls of the room. The teen's attention drifted to those walls and how barren they looked.

She didn't know how Tate had decorated her bedroom back when it belonged to him but she suspected it was more than what he'd done with this one. Granted there was some nice furniture in the room that spoke of Chad's influence or possibly Patrick's but there was nothing that felt like Tate in it. The only place she saw real evidence of him was on the bookshelf where he had stowed some of his favorite novels and trinkets.

And that's when she saw it.

"My scrapbook!" She hopped up and went to the bookcase and pulled the album from the shelf. "Fucking Tate," she said but she was smiling a little smile when she said it.

Father Jeremiah glanced over at her outburst but didn't stop his prayer. He quickly put his full attention back to the task of sealing the protective circle. He didn't want it to fail on account of his lapse.

Violet thumbed through the album without reminiscing. She was just checking to make sure everything was still where it should be. The scrapbook was as it should be but there was a new addition as well. In the very back Tate had placed a letter that he'd written to her but had never given her. Violet guessed that he'd written it sometime over the past couple of years, before she started speaking to him again. She carried the album over to his bed where she sat back down. Then she read the letter silently to herself.

_Dear Violet, _

_I guess that's how most people start their letters but I never put 'dear' on one before now. Not even in school when they made us write those stupid practice letters to nobody. But I wrote it here because you are dear to me. You'll never know how much because you can't won't see me anymore. _

_I miss you so much, sometimes it hurts. It actually hurts - like a muscle cramp or something stabbing me from the inside. I'd say it's in my heart but I guess I don't have one. Not really. Not anymore. _

_I wish I could make it all better. I wish I was the guy you thought I was. I never felt sorrier to be me than I do right now. _

_When I was alive there was a time when I wished that I was someone special - somebody that everybody liked and wanted to have around. But the more I got to know what people were really like, the less I wanted to be like them. There are so many fucked up people in the world who do bad things on purpose. People who are selfish and only think about themselves. It's like they can't see further than two feet ahead of themselves. It's like they stop thinking when they get to the point that they want to see. Anything outside of that doesn't matter to them. No one else matters to them except them. Not even their kids or their friends. _

_I never wanted to be like that. I got so sick of seeing people like that get ahead. It's not fair that all those selfish, self-serving assholes out there should be rewarded for trampling over other people just because those people are too quiet or nice or different to fight back. I hated the fact that I always got treated like shit because I wouldn't be that way. I tried to just stay out of it. Keep my head down and pretend like I didn't feel it. Didn't see it. But it was so hard when all those dumbshits kept shoving it in my face all the time. People at school, people at the store, even just walking down the street some asshole would do something stupid and then get mad at me because he was really mad at what he did to himself but couldn't accept that he did it to himself._

_I know I used to be better than all that but… somehow, somewhere along the way… I became the bad guy. _

_Nobody gave a fuck about me when I was the one being shit on. When I was the one who was hurting. Nobody saw me. Nobody cared what happened to me. They didn't care till I became like them - worse than them. Then they cared a lot. People who never even met me care now. But it's for all the wrong reasons._

_I always wanted to leave a mark on the world. I just thought it would be something that people would look at and say: "He did good.". But I guess the only people who'll ever say that now are people crazier than I am. It's fucked up… the only way to get ahead in the world is by being more of an asshole than it is. It shouldn't be like that._

_I used to think heaven was where all the good people would be rewarded but now I don't think there is a heaven. If there was, you'd be in it. _

_But there is a hell and I'm in it. It's so lonely here without you. I wish I could die again, just so I wouldn't have to be here without you. Being alone hurts so much more after you feel what it's like to have a friend. Sometimes I wish I'd never met you just so I didn't have to feel what it's like to lose you. But then I remember all the good stuff we had between us and that makes it worth anything I have to deal with now that you're gone. _

_I'm sorry I couldn't be your hero._

_I love you forever._

_Yours eternally,_

_Tate_

As self-pitying as it was at points, Violet couldn't help but be touched by the raw sincerity and sorrow in the letter. And he made several valid points, even if they weren't what society would approve of. Society _was_ pretty fucked up. What Tate said about it chimed with how she felt about what little she'd seen of it in her lifetime. She sniffled and wiped moisture from her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.

"Are you all right?" Father Jeremiah asked.

The teen sniffed again and cleared her throat. "Yeah," she said. She stuffed the letter into the back of her scrapbook once more and hugged the whole thing to her chest. "Are you done?"

"Nearly," he said and returned to what he was doing.

"Violet," Vivien said. She was awake and looking more alert than before. She sat up. "I'm going to go find Joshua. Stay here with him-" She motioned to the priest.

But Violet didn't let her finish. "No, mom. If you're going, I'm going."

"No," said Vivien, trying to be firm. But she was still weak from the lingering effects of the sedative and couldn't put much force into her tone. "You'd be safer here."

"So would you. Mom, you're still out of it. You need to sleep."

"I can't sleep while my baby's in danger," the woman said.

Violet found it hard to argue with that. But one thing she remained firm on. "I'm going with you."

Vivien sighed and smiled. "All right. Let's go then."

Violet stood then Vivien followed, able to rise and stand on her own, though she looked terribly haggard.

"Do you want me to go with you?" volunteered Father Jeremiah.

"No, you finish what you're doing here," said Violet. "I have a bad feeling we're going to need a safe spot later."

The two of them left and the priest resumed his circuit of the room. But the ritual was interrupted yet again just moments later when Constance burst into the room, wild-eyed and hysterical.

"It's taken Michael!" she cried, flinging herself at the man.

"What?" Jeremiah said. He dropped his prayer book to both catch the woman and defend his soft spots against her collision. Though she was a ghost, she could feel very tangible. "Who's taken him?"

"A thing! In a… a…" Constance pushed away from him to gesture wildly at her mid-section. The effort made her wing-like sleeve billow. "It was a black, vinyl thing, like what they were sayin' took Tate! It came out of the ceilin' and snatched Michael right out of his bed! I saw it with my own eyes! It's the same thing that took Tate, I'm sure of it!"

She pulled completely away from the priest then. "Where's Tate? Where's my boy?"

"He went with Patrick and Chad down to the basement to find Vivien's baby," said Jeremiah.

Constance homed in on them, feeling for their presence. "I'm willin' to bet that's where Michael is too." She couldn't feel him but she could feel Tate so she oriented on that. "I'm goin' down there."

"You mean _we_ are," said Father Jeremiah. There was no way he was going to stay out of it now that the creature had Michael. That simply wasn't an option for him.

She looked him up and down, estimating what the odds were on him besting the the rubber-clad child-stealer if it came down to a fight. "Just don't try to hold me back if I start whippin' on someone," she warned. "Anybody takes my family has hell to pay."

Constance turned and marched out of the room then. Jeremiah picked his prayer book up off the floor and set it down on the dresser. Then he followed after the woman. She still wasn't very skilled with shifting long distances so she was forced to take the more physical route, just like the priest.

Jeremiah said a silent prayer for strength as they went.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I was watching _The Walking Dead _as I was editing this. What a weird contrast of stories: Writing about ghosts while zombies tear apart the living (and vice versa) behind me. To quote Depeche Mode's "Fly on the Windscreen": Death is everywhere.

There are only a couple more chapters in this episode. Then we'll be at the Season Finale.


	6. Chapter 6 - Confrontation

...

Tate, Chad, and Patrick also took the slower more human route to the basement in order to give them a little time to plan. There wasn't much time but they had to at least have a vague sense of what they were going to do when they got there.

"Ask politely then take the baby by force?" suggested Tate. He'd aged up after they'd left Vivien's presence as he didn't want to tackle the pending situation as a child.

"Sounds good to me," said Patrick, rolling his head to loosen his muscles in anticipation of a physical altercation. Frankly he would love to kick some ass right about then.

"Let _me_ do the talking," said Chad.

"Well," Pat said grimly. "I guess we can rule out polite."

"Don't even start with me," the dark-haired man snapped at him.

"He's got a point," said Tate. And when he caught Chad's vicious glare he felt compelled to excuse himself with: "Just sayin'."

"Oh, yeah?" Chad fumed. He didn't like being ganged up on. "Let's see _you_ talk him out into handing the baby over."

"Okay," Tate smiled, undaunted by the man's attempt to use reverse psychology. The teen actually believed he could talk some sense into the kidnapper - if it really was Ben.

The three of them proceeded down to the basement, moving more cautiously once they were downstairs. At first everything seemed normal: Nothing looked out of place in the cluttered, shelf-lined cellar and there was no sign of anyone nearby. Then there came the distinct and unmistakable sound of a baby fussing from somewhere in the dusty gloom.

Chad motioned toward the sound and they headed quietly toward it. Within the maze of old junk and specimen jars they found Charles Montgomery's operating table. Rubber Man stood beside it, cradling a wiggly and very unhappy Joshua. The infant gave another fussy squawk. On the operating table next to them was a small figure, strapped down and unconscious.

"Michael!" Tate exclaimed.

The sound drew Rubber Man's attention to their location immediately. The element of surprise was ruined; there was no further time to plan.

"Doctor Harmon!" the blond teen said, hoping that was indeed who he was addressing. "Doctor Harmon, it's me! Tate! Please listen to me!"

Rubber Man stood there for a moment, regarding him from the shadowed eyeholes of the black hood. The baby in his arms was quickly working his way up to a full-blown squall.

"Please, don't do this," begged Tate. Tears welled up unbidden, an outward sign of his anxiety and desperation. "Let Michael and Joshua go. You don't- you don't want to be this."

Rubber Man set the infant down on the table beside Michael's still form. Joshua wailed in earnest when he was placed on the cold metal surface. The baby was too tightly swaddled to thrash much though so he was in little danger of falling. But he was extremely unhappy.

Once the baby was out of his arms Rubber Man moved around the table and started toward Tate. The teenager tensed, unsure whether Rubber Man approaching him was a good thing or bad thing.

"Take off the hood, Ben," Patrick said.

Rubber Man positioned himself between the table and the intervention group. He didn't remove the hood.

"We don't want to have to fight you," added Chad. He meant it in many ways.

"It's not too late," insisted Tate. "Just give the kids back and we can fix this. We can!"

The black rubber-clad person stopped and eyed the group, finally focusing just on Tate. Then Rubber Man lifted a hand. Tate hesitated then stepped forward to take the offered hand, thinking it a gesture of good will. But the instant his hand touched that sticky-slick second skin he knew that wasn't the case. The unpleasant sensation flowed up his arm like a current and directly into his middle where it rolled around and settled in the pit of his stomach. Tate staggered and dropped to his knees, becoming violently ill. He retched and heaved but nothing came up.

Patrick closed in on Rubber Man then while Chad went for Tate. He dragged the younger man away from the brawl that ensued between Pat and the rubber suit, but apart from moving him to where he wouldn't get stepped on, there wasn't a lot Chad could do for him. The dark-haired man straightened and grabbed a large specimen jar from the shelf. He then used it to bash Rubber Man over the head with while the thing was distracted with Patrick. The antique jar cracked and split into several pieces and old formaldehyde splashed everywhere. The pickled organ inside bounced on the ground in a rubbery way. Rubber Man shook of f the hit quickly and turned to grab the gay man by the throat.

On the floor, Tate felt like his insides were being shredded. He braced his hands against the floor and retched harder. Blood droplets spattered the floor but he couldn't stop being sick. He kept heaving and the blood coming out got more profuse. Soon he was vomiting blood and when the biggest wave of painful nausea hit he hacked up something that didn't splash on the floor but clung to his mouth and face like plastic wrap - only much stronger. Like rubber.

It quickly crawled over his face and down his neck. It slid beneath his clothes and over everything, encasing him. And that was the last he felt of himself as what was Tate slipped into a dreamlike state. He was no longer aware of what was happening in the basement. What he was as a spirit, what he could do, was being controlled by the one in the black rubber suit.

…

The hallway outside Tate's room was dark and forbidding. The air was growing colder; cold enough to fog Father Jeremiah's breath in the thin illumination from his pen light as he followed Constance. He could feel the darkness around him coalescing; gathering like a storm. He reached for the pendant he wore and tugged it out from under his shirt so he could hold it. He felt its reassuring warmth but it seemed small and insignificant in the growing chill.

A figure became visible ahead in the hall, bathed grayish-blue in the faint light Father Jeremiah carried. It was a chubby girl in a filthy nurse's uniform and she was just standing there in an awkward position, facing away from them. She was as dirty as the uniform she wore and her hair was a matted mess.

Constance frowned. "Gladys?" she said uncertainly. From behind it sort of looked like the ghost girl but the woman had never seen her look so unkempt.

The nurse-girl turned and even in the wan light her features looked hideous; monstrous. Demonic. Her eyes were black pools of cold hatred and her jaw hung open at an unnatural angle, exposing a black tongue and sharp teeth. She raised her hands in a menacing fashion and they could see her pale fingers terminated in sharp black claws. She gave a weird hiss of a scream and lunged at them.

Father Jeremiah grabbed Constance and pulled her into the nearest room. He slammed the door shut and they both leaned against it. The ghost on the other side pounded hard on it for several seconds then there was dead silence. The woman and the priest continued to lean against the door for a while longer, not wanting to move too soon.

"Is that… Uh," Jeremiah said quietly after a while. "Did you know that, er, girl?"

Constance shook her head and her hair fell a little from its back combed position. "No. I don't know. She looked a bit like one of the other ghosts that haunt this old place but…" She shook her head again. "I don't think that was her. Gladys… she was a sweet thing. Fat and homely as the day is long but she was sweet."

Jeremiah turned the penlight on the bedroom, shining it around so he could see where they were. They room they were in was mostly unfurnished - only an empty bookshelf and an end table were there. A pair of windows and a door to what Father Jeremiah assumed was a closet were the only exits apart from the one they leaned against.

"Where does that lead?" he asked, shining the light on the other door.

Constance glanced over. "Closet," she verified, to his disappointment.

"I don't think it's safe to go out there without a weapon," said Jeremiah. "Can you get out of here using some… ghost method?" He felt foolish but there was no other convenient way to ask.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I've never tried to move like they do." She still hadn't fully accepted she was now one of 'them'.

"You should try," said the priest.

"What about you?"

"I'll find another way," Jeremiah assured. "You need to find Michael and you shouldn't be slowed down by me or that," he tipped his head back toward the door, indicating the monster they'd shut out.

She hesitated, looking at him in concern. Then she gently stroked his cheek. "Be careful."

He nodded, touched by her sincerity. "Go on. Try to get out of here."

Constance took a breath and concentrated on willing herself to the basement. Nothing happened at first then she shifted her weight and felt things change. Going with that impression, she took a step forward and felt the world rush by. When she stopped moving, she was in the basement.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

This chapter was somewhat inspired by one of the first ghost movies I ever saw: _The Sentinel_. I saw it when I was around 10 years old. Cable was still fairly new and my parents weren't aware that Showtime would play something so inappropriate for children in the middle of the day. I also saw _Ghost Story_ at that age but it was too boring to sit through. The only thing I remember from it was the guy falling out the window naked. That scene stuck with me because I'd never seen nudity on film before. But I digress. _The Sentinel_ was my first experience seeing ghosts that weren't harmless. It was also the first time I saw lesbians depicted on film. There were a lot of firsts for me that year, thanks to television. It's an old film that hasn't been remade to my knowledge but it's worth seeing if you haven't.

Next chapter's the last one of this episode. Then we'll be moving into the Season Finale. Yep. It's almost here.


	7. Chapter 7 - Nightmares are Real

…

Tate stroked his hand down the barrel of his pump-action shotgun, Mickey. Named for the brutal murderer in _Natural Born Killers_, the cold weapon felt vibrant in his hands, ready for action. He was all geared up in his black fatigues, Civil War coat and Doc Marten's boots but he wasn't heading to Westfield. He was heading to the master bedroom.

He kicked open the door; his boot hit it with a solid, satisfying thud. He took quick surveillance of the room and homed in on the bed. Larry and Constance were there and they both looked very surprised to see him. Lawrence slowly rose, putting his hands up as he did. He wore that stupid, slimy half-smile he always did when he was trying to bullshit Tate.

"Now, son," the man said calmly. He was butt-naked and staring down the sawed-off barrel of a weapon as black as the eyes of its owner and he thought the calm act would fly. "You don't want to do this."

"Oh, I think I do," Tate said in an icy tone.

"Tate!" Constance yelped. She had yanked the blankets up to cover her own nudity.

Tate pulled the trigger.

Larry fell backward, blood flying from his chest. Tate pumped another round and managed to get in another shot to the man's middle before he hit the bed. Lawrence went limp with his arms thrown out in a Christ-on-the-cross position then he slowly slid to the floor.

Tate shifted his attention to his mother who tore her eyes off her dead lover and stared at her son. "Now we're gonna have to bury him," she said with a sigh. "And he'll most likely show up as a ghost too. Dammit, Tate!"

He shrank a little and hugged his gun. "He shouldn't have been touching you," he mumbled.

She sighed again and lit a cigarette. Then she looked at him. "Well, put the gun down and come here," she said, beckoning with her free hand.

He propped Mickey against her nightstand and went to her.

"The coat, too," she said. "I don't want that smelly old thing in my bed."

"You kept it," he reminded as he shrugged it off.

"Just because I kept it doesn't mean I want it smellin' up my sheets," Constance said, exhaling smoke. "I don't want those boots up here either."

Tate sat down on the edge of her bed and pulled them off. Each one made a heavy clunk when it hit the floor. Then he looked at her and his lower lip pooched out a little in a sullen pout.

A faint smile tugged one corner of her mouth and she reached over to put her cigarette out. "There, there," she said as if he'd whined at her. She held both arms out to him. "Come on now."

He relaxed the petulant look and scooted over into her embrace. She kissed his forehead and she petted his hair back away from his face. Tate kissed her cheek in return then nestled down beside her, one leg settling over both of hers. He nuzzled his face against her chest, nudging the blanket down. She pet his face, running her fingers of the outline of his jaw. Then her hand moved to tug the blanket down, giving her baby access to her bare breasts.

He set to the nearest, eager yet gentle. She had no milk, of course, but her familiar scent and the warm firmness of her nipple on his tongue were soothing in their own right. Her hand stroked his hair and shoulders and he fell asleep there in the security of her embrace.

He woke up at school, at his desk in world history class. He blinked a few times and looked around.

He sat there for several minutes, disoriented and just staring at the chalkboard while the teacher droned on about the Spanish Conquistadors. Tate already knew more than high school level history about the subject and could afford to tune it out. The dream had felt so incredibly and disturbingly real despite how bizarre it was. Amazingly detailed for how little time it took to dream it - not even a whole class period.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, using the cuffs of his dad's brown sweater to grind the sleepiness away. When he opened his eyes again he noticed the dark-haired kid sitting next to him was staring at him. Parker, Tate thought his name was. He was a skinny theater kid with crooked teeth who reminded Tate of a sparrow.

"Morning," the guy teased.

The corner of Tate's mouth twitched in a poor attempt at a smile. It was a 'shut up and leave me alone' kind of expression. Then he looked at the teacher.

The teacher looked back at him. "Don't do this!" he said in Patrick's voice.

The world flickered and he was in the basement of Murder House. His body was completely covered in what seemed to be a blood-red version of the rubber bondage suit that had terrorized the household. He realized distantly that his clothes were gone but the situation was even stranger. He was in the act of shutting a large vault-like door against Patrick's resistance. The red suit gave him the strength necessary to defeat the opposing force.

The room started to flicker again. Tate knew the real-reality was about to slip away again and he was sure that loss of control was being enhanced if not dictated by the hood of the sanguine suit. He tried to pull the headpiece off. If he could remove it he would be able to think clearer - that was how it worked with the original suit anyway. But this one didn't have a partition between the head and the body. It was a solid piece from head to shoulders. There were no zippers or buckles or any kind of fastener he could find anywhere.

He couldn't take the thing off.

The world faded and went black. When he woke up next he was in bed.

He felt drugged, disconnected. The disheveled teen sat up a little and looked around groggily. He saw the grayish-white walls of his room at the asylum and realized he'd been dreaming again. He slowly collapsed into silent tears.

"Another bad night?" asked Dr. Harmon from over to Tate's right. The man was in the same spot he always was in: Sitting in a gray chair next to a tiny white side table. He wrote something on the electronic tablet he had with him.

Tate jammed his fists in his eyes, determined to stop them leaking. "Yeah," he said.

"You want to talk about it?"

"It's so real when I'm in it," said Tate after a moment. He didn't lower his hands. "I was going to try that thing you said, where I tell myself to wake up? But I just… don't even think about it."

"But you do understand those are just dreams," the doctor prompted. His mild tone took on a sterner backbone. "This here, this is what's real."

"Yeah," said Tate without hesitation, finally letting his hands drop to his lap. He wasn't really that certain but he knew there was only one answer Dr. Harmon wanted to hear. "I just don't get why it feels so real."

"The brain is a powerful thing," said Dr. Harmon with a one-shouldered shrug. "It controls everything about our bodies, from how we breathe to…" He shook his head. "What we feel. Studies have proven that an average person who watches the same television show regularly over a few seasons will come to subconsciously view the characters the same as they would real friends. It doesn't mean those people believe the characters are real when they're not watching the show. But it does mean that when they see the characters on television next, their brain fires off exactly the same way as if they were seeing a real friend again."

Tate wrinkled his nose. "What's that got to do with my dreams?"

Dr. Harmon smiled. "You're a creative kid. It makes sense your dreams would be vivid enough to feel real, considering the _average_ person out there feels the same way just watching a sitcom."

Tate twitched a little smile. "I guess." The thin smile died. "But every time I wake up somewhere I have to wonder all over again if I'm in the real world or if I'm just having a really vivid dream." He sighed and sank down in his bed. Tears dripped from the corners of his eyes as depression settled on him. "It didn't used to be like this. Do you think it'll ever stop?"

Dr. Harmon's expression got serious. "I think if you continue to try, a solution will eventually present itself. Just wanting to improve is a huge step."

"Right," said Tate, not believing it. "That's why I'm still in this place."

"Until then," said Dr. Harmon. He wasn't going to be drawn into another discussion about why the teen was institutionalized. "The best course is to try and make good choices no matter what 'reality' you think you're in. Control your temper. Don't hurt others."

"I know," said Tate, cutting the list short. "But it wasn't always like this, doc. It used to be I didn't even remember my dreams. Now it's like I can't get rid of them."

"Which is why there's plenty of room to hope for a change," said Dr. Harmon. "As suddenly as it all came on, it could end again. Right?"

"I guess," Tate grumped. He didn't want to agree with the doctor but the man had a point.

Dr. Harmon smiled and reached over to pat the boy's leg. "I'm going to let you get up and ready for the day," he said. He glanced at his tablet again then smiled at Tate. "I think you're making good progress."

Then he left and Tate was alone. He knew he should get up and go to the nurse's station to ask for a toothbrush but he didn't want to talk to anybody. He didn't want to see anybody. He just wanted to curl up someplace alone. So he did just that under the covers of his bed. He knew he wouldn't be left alone for long; some staff member in scrubs would come along to herd him into the routine of the day. But for a few moments he had his freedom in isolation.

The door opened shortly after and two burly aides entered. Tate lowered the blankets to frown at them, affronted.

"What, I need an escort to the bathroom now?"

The guy who was closest to Tate answered. "We're escorting you to ECT. Let's go."

"ECT?" asked Tate. He didn't like the way the medical bouncers were approaching his bed. They were all tensed up; coiled and ready to strike. It sparked an urge in him to run.

"Shock therapy, kid," the other man said. "Now come on."

Tate knew a lot about that form of therapy from the books he found in the basement of Murder House and he wanted no part of it. One of the guys reached for him and that was enough to spur the blond boy to action. He scrambled for the end of the bed and slid off the end, landing on his feet. He made it to the door but the men had closed it behind them. When Tate tried the handle, the door was locked.

"Fuck!" he cursed, with great emphasis.

"Don't make this hard," said the first guy. He sounded like he was trying to be reasonable but he grabbed Tate's arm.

Tate didn't see anything reasonable about cooking his brain. He liked his brain the way it was, even if it was crazy. He pulled away from the man's grip but there was nowhere to run. "No! Doctor Harmon didn't say!" he shouted. Tears brightened his frantic eyes. "He didn't say!"

"It's on the schedule," said the second guy. Then he lunged at the teen.

In the heat of the moment Tate didn't have time to analyze his next move. He just went on instinct and aimed a punch at that man's groin. Unfortunately for him, the staff at the asylum had been trained for such moves and the man caught the blow on the outside of his thigh. He swore then he grabbed Tate in a headlock.

"Why do they always fight?" muttered the first guy. Then he struggled a set of zip cuffs onto the struggling teenager.

It was a battle but they transferred him to a gurney where they belted him down hand and foot and wheeled him off to the electroshock wing. A boringly average man in his early 50's strapped a weird rubberized bar into his mouth and told him it would keep Tate from biting his tongue. That did nothing to ease his growing anxiety. He whimpered behind the rubber bit and he cried some, then the electric currents began to wrack his body.

In the distance, just before he passed out, Tate thought he heard a baby crying.

…

Father Jeremiah was alone. Almost as if the house could sense that, the pounding outside the door resumed. It doubled in effort and was so loud it sounded like there was more than one person out there. The noise echoed in the room in an unnatural way. The lights flickered spastically, giving the room the appearance of an old projector when the film is ready to snap. The priest suddenly wished he hadn't been so hasty in sending Constance off but he knew Michael was top priority, not him.

He felt the door buckle behind him and realized the creature was going to come through it whether his weight was against it or not. He retreated toward the windows just as the door splintered and broke free of its frame. It tore off its hinges, falling to the floor in several pieces and exposing two shadowy figures on the other side.

The humanoid figures shambled across the threshold. The larger one had been joined by a skinnier one with hair so matted and bloody it almost looked like her head was on backward. They both looked like they had clawed their way up from the bowels of the earth and they moved toward him in an awkwardly disjointed fashion, like their limbs were stiff or put together incorrectly. Both were wearing filthy, torn up nursing uniforms. What he could see of their faces was distorted horror.

"Begone!" he commanded in a firm tone that defied his anxiety. One hand clutched his pendant tightly while he kept the tiny penlight trained on the dark forms with the other. "I command you in the name of my Lord Samael! Depart this place!"

The sound they made in the backs of their throats in response to Father Jeremiah's words wasn't like anything he'd heard a person make. It sounded like heavy rocks in a tumbling machine and yet he could tell they were laughing at him. And they kept coming.

"Oh, my Lord," the priest murmured. "Help me."

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

What is really real, when you're a ghost? When your whole existence is a memory of what you were, is there a significant difference between dreams and what the living interpret as reality? Thanks to Rubber Man, Tate sure doesn't know.

Cultural references have run amok in this chapter. Let's see if I can remember everything I gave a nod to. _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_, _The Exorcist_, _Silent Hill_, _Psycho_, _The Road to Wellville_, _The Amityville Horror_, _Natural Born Killers_, _A Nightmare on Elm Street_, _The Silent Scream_, _Identity_, _The Ward_... There's even a tip of the hat to_ American Horror Story: Asylum_.

So roll credits. Play some end music (see my Profile for suggestions) and relax for a bit. The next Episode is the season finale'. Are you ready for it? 'Cause it's ready for you...


End file.
